


Kiss With A Fist

by livingvakariouslythroughyou (supercow585)



Series: The Start of Something [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Also they fight some (physically), Darejones, F/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smut, Some Fluff, Still plenty of sarcasm, and feelings, oh so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 21:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11975304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercow585/pseuds/livingvakariouslythroughyou
Summary: Blue and purple marks litter his skin, but he does not seem to mind them, even wears them a kind of with pride. Because they are proof of his penance, and he is earnest in his attempts to repent. Each bruise is a piece of his redemption. Each blow is a part of her retribution. For he has sinned, and this he knows. But he is not beyond saving. So he takes every ounce of her fury, every punch and kick and throw as though it’s all that exists to sustain him. He never backs down, meeting every assault she hurls at him, taking her rage and pain, and consuming them. And within the span of a heartbeat, he turns her suffering into his devotion, falling at her feet and praying for mercy. And she will always give him what he has earned. So she ends her exacting punishment with kisses to dry his tears because, despite her anger, she is as grateful to have him back as he is grateful to be with her. He is her redemption as surely as she is his.Or, the many ways that Jessica processes her anger about almost losing Matt and her growing feelings for him. Includes a healthy dose of religious references because I couldn't not. Apologies. Set almost entirely after my fic, I'll always leave the lights on and you'll return to me.





	Kiss With A Fist

Blue and purple marks litter his skin, his battle scars from her powerful attacks. But he does not seem to mind them, even wears them a kind of with pride. Because they are proof of his penance, and he is earnest in his attempts to repent. Each bruise is a piece of his redemption. Each blow is a part of her retribution. For he has sinned, and this he knows. But he is not beyond saving. So he takes every ounce of her fury, every punch and kick and throw as though it’s all that exists to sustain him. He never backs down, meeting every assault she hurls at him, taking her rage and pain, and consuming them. And within the span of a heartbeat, he turns her suffering into his devotion, falling at her feet and praying for mercy. And she will always give him what he has earned. So she ends her exacting punishment with kisses to dry his tears because, despite her anger, she is as grateful to have him back as he is grateful to be with her. He is her redemption as surely as she is his.

\---

The first time happens very quickly after he shows up in her apartment, tail between his legs as he shows her he’s not dead. And it’s a frantic affair- hurried, rough, punishing. As though she can’t wait another second to feel his skin or taste his lips for fear that he will evaporate in her grasp. As though she must make him understand his transgressions and begin to make him pay for them. Because all is not forgiven, but she needs him as desperately as she needs air in her lungs.

Gone is the soft, tender moment they shared minutes before, as she first pressed her lips to his. Now she is all heat and desire and desperation. Her hands are greedy, her mouth hungry as she pushes him down on the bed and all but tears the clothes from his body, kissing him with tongue and teeth to tell him what she cannot say out loud.

_I missed you as if I were missing a part of myself._

And he reads her body, tastes the unspoken words on her tongue, which only causes him to respond more feverishly, pulling her to him and burying his face in her hair. But he gapes in wonder as she bats away his hands and takes off her own clothes before settling between his legs.

She leads. She's adamant about that, even if she said he could start making things up to her. She is running the show right now. He’ll get his chance later. Maybe. If he earns it. Or if he's sufficiently apologetic and she's feeling gracious.

And in setting their tempo, she’s merciless. She teases him and keeps him on the edge without quite pushing him over for as long as she can before the temptation to chase her own release becomes too great to ignore. But he seems to come alive under the torturous pleasure she’s ever so slowly wringing from him. And something about seeing him that way- walking the tenuous line between ecstasy and pain before finally losing himself to the rush of it all- is exactly what she needs to feel the cage of fury around her heart start to crumble. And the way he says her name helps too. Soft, breathy, reverent. Like a prayer.

“ _Jessica._ _Yes_. _Please,_ _Jessica._ ”

Like she's his absolution and he's begging for forgiveness. Despite her remaining fury, she does not believe that she can find it in her to deny him when he asks like that.

\---

Their rounds in the ring start his second day back. He initially suggests it as a way for her to work through some of the anger she still feels toward him, but as it becomes a more regular occurrence, it doesn’t take long to become something of a learning experience.

It's halfway throughout their second match that he starts offering simple suggestions and tips for how she can do things differently. How to widen her stance for a more stable base, or how to keep her other hand up to guard her face in between her swings. But when she realizes what he's doing, she frowns and pauses, dropping her hands to her sides.

“Are you serious right now?”

“What?”

“You’re critiquing me. When I'm trying to use you as a punching bag. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“No, I’m just offering some suggestions. Just trying to help.”

“ _Right_. So was this your plan all along? Get me here to so you could teach me how to _properly_ fight by pretending to give me a way to beat you up and unleash the rightful anger I still feel?”

“Jess, it’s nothing like that. I just noticed a few small things that you could do that might help you out if you were to incorporate them into your current fighting style. But do what you want. I'm not trying to insinuate that you're not a capable fighter. I have plenty of evidence to the contrary.”

He pulls up his shirt to reveal the bruises that have blossomed under his skin from her attacks the day before, and a few which have begun to bloom from tonight. Her heart starts to pound at the sight of his bare chest, speckled with blue and purple marks, and he notices. He hesitates for a moment, then lifts the garment the rest of the way off his frame and tosses it to the floor outside the ring, barely hiding a smirk.

She gives no outward sign of her reaction, but she knows he can read all of her internal ones. So she simply shrugs at him.

“Good. But you’ve gone and pissed me off all over again with your attempts at being _helpful_. So we’ll have to go a few more rounds before I’m done. You up for the challenge, Murdock?”

“Don't you worry, Jones. I can take it.”

And the thing is, she’s starting to think he actually _can_. And not just her anger, but everything, in all contexts. From the force with which she swings at him on nights like this, to the copious amounts of alcohol she drinks and the way it sharpens her tongue to a razor’s edge. And the knowledge of that makes her blood sing, makes her happier and more terrified than she would ever be able to admit.

So instead of saying anything, she throws her hardest punch, not holding back at all. And she grins when he blocks it and smirks right back at her, a dark and wicked expression dawning on his face.

He's earning more than mercy tonight. She might even let him lead this time. At least, for a little while.

\---

The second time catches her off-guard with how _gentle_ he is with her. But maybe that’s not the word she really wants to use, because he doesn't treat her like she's made of glass. And she's glad about that because nothing would be more ridiculous. But at the same time, he doesn't let her rush him. Instead, he venerates her, as if her entire body is hallowed ground to which he must pay his tribute. He sets a methodical pace, using his special abilities to enhance the experience all the way around. And after, she can’t deny that she appreciates the end result. She’ll even admit that, sometimes, it might be nice to let him lead because his rhythm is so different and enjoyable in its own way, if unfamiliar.

They’re in his apartment, with barely twenty-four hours behind them since his return, and she has yet to allow him out of her sight. She’s still a little afraid that she’ll turn around to find he's disappeared, and that the last day has been no more than a fantastically good dream.

The tension between them has lingered throughout the day- unspoken words and questions with the healthy dose of anger that still simmers under her skin. But it gets stronger when, after they’ve finished dinner, he finally explains what happened and where he's been, all while offering a multitude of apologies. A buzzing sensation builds along her nerves the more he talks, like her whole system is overloading. She is struck with the sudden desire to punch him in the mouth, while the vulnerability of the moment as he apologizes so sincerely heats her blood in a different way, making her want to kiss his mouth instead.

To her dismay, he misses none of it, cocking his head to read her. He walks to his kitchen and returns with a bottle of whiskey, which he offers to her. Then he sits angled toward her, arm stretched out behind her on the couch.

“Seems like you might need this.”

“Yeah? Well, you too.”

He gives her a half smile but refuses the bottle when she tries to pass it back to him.

So she shrugs and takes a long, deep drink, exhaling some measure of relief at the familiar burn on the back of her throat. And she’s pleasantly surprised at the taste she finds there.

“Damn. You’ve got good taste in whiskey.”

“Just one of the benefits of my enhanced senses- a _very_ refined palate.”

“Just how refined are we talking?”

He lists the notes, flavors, and complexities of the liquor with ease, as though reading off the label. She raises a brow at him, rather impressed. But she pretends not to be, her tone flat.

“I'm sure you say that to _all_ the girls. How long have you been using that whole spiel, anyway?”

He gives a belabored sigh and licks his lips, a caught look on his face.

“Since college.”

She huffs a dry laugh in spite of herself and watches as he angles his head at her, giving her a curious look. One part smirking, one part frowning, and one part longing. The sight of it makes her heart flutter. And his soft, intent voice makes her breath catch.

“But there are no other girls, Jess. Not anymore.”

“Of course there aren’t.” Her sardonic voice seems to echo in the confines of the apartment as the tension between them thickens. She rolls her eyes and takes another drink, considering the different ways she could handle the tension growing between them. With another drink, she makes up her mind and gives him a _look_ she's sure he'll feel.

“So what else are those senses good for? I'm still not clear on all the specifics.”

He raises his eyebrows, shrugging slightly, then leans back into the arm he has draped across the couch behind her.

“Depends on the situation.”

His other hand has somehow come to rest on her knee, drawing circles there through the hole in her jeans, and her heart rate is spiking with each pass. She turns a little, angling herself more toward him and feels his breath on her neck as he leans closer. His proximity is causing her to lose her footing rapidly, but she works to maintain an even, unaffected tone.

“What about now?”

“What _about_ now?”

“What about _me_ , dumbass? What can you sense?”

He frowns in concentration for a moment, like he’s weighing his options, trying to decide how to answer her. Or maybe trying to decide if he’s going to call her bluff. After a moment, he exhales and nods his head in her direction, voice carefully neutral.

“You're upset. Your heart rate is up, your adrenaline is high, your temperature is raised. And you’re carrying extra tension in your muscles. But you're not just angry.”

She scoffs at him. “The hell I’m not.”

He hums softly at her, and she can’t suppress a shiver. Because it sounds promising. And she would really like to know what promises are waiting for her if he gets his way.

“I think you're unsure about whether you want to punch me in the face or straddle me right here.”

She hates her heart for a moment because she can feel it hammering and giving her away. But even if he can hear it pounding in a rapid tempo, she can’t give in that easily. She’s got a reputation to maintain as the aloof, detached, and apathetic bitch with a drinking problem. Plus, she’s still pretty fucking pissed with his antics that night at Midland Circle.

“Wow. Full of yourself much?”

“Just stating the obvious.”

His nonchalant tone and the use of a phrase she once spoke to him make her give a second thought to punching him after all. But why is it getting so increasingly hard to maintain her level of anger at him?

“Uh huh. Because it's so obvious that I want to fuck you right now.”

She’s not sure how he manages it, but he gives her a small smile that doesn’t look smug even as he’s calling her out.

“Actually, yeah, it is. Though I guess you could still choose to deck me. But I'll tell you which I prefer.”

His hand is moving higher up her leg, now dancing lightly on her thigh and she has to take a breath to keep from reacting to him. Not yet.

She gives a heavy sigh, then reaches to place the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table before turning back to him. Her tone brooks no argument as she gives him her conditions. “Even if I don't choose to punch you right now, you better know I’m still very pissed. You're _not_ off the hook yet, Murdock.”

He gives a sad smile and nods at her, voice earnest. “I know. And I’m still sorry.”

They are so close, now, having been moving slowly toward one another like two objects whose orbits are set on a collision course. Finally she gives in, taking his face in her hands and crushing his lips to hers. The sound he makes in the back of his throat at the contact is the sweetest music she's ever heard. She moves closer and swings one leg up in attempt to straddle him, but he gently pauses her movement before she can settle on him.

“I don’t know about you, but I’d much prefer to do this on the bed.”

He stands and takes her hand, pulling her up to follow behind him on his way to his room.

“Just what are you planning to do?”

She uses a put out tone, but her heart starts racing with anticipation, and he smiles wickedly at her as he leads her to the edge of the bed and wraps his arms around her, embracing her with a deep kiss. He pulls away just as she starts to pant and encourages her to sit. Then he takes off his t-shirt and traces a hand over her cheek.

“I want to show you how sorry I am.”

With that he gently lays her back on the bed and her breath catches. Because, _oh_ , he's sorry, and she can feel it. In the light, slow brush of his fingers up her torso as he removes her shirt and bra. In the hot, sensuous drag of his tongue over her collarbone. In the gentle, teasing bite of his teeth at her ear and at the base of her neck.

And he pairs it all with feather light touches to her breasts and down her abdomen to the waist of her jeans. Suffice it to say he's driving her insane.

“ _Jesus Christ,_ Matt _._ This doesn't feel like apologizing. It feels like you're trying to torture me.”

“Never, Jess. But if you stop fighting me, it’ll be better for you.”

“I'm not fighting you. I just want you to _fuck_ me.”

He hisses a breath as she threads her fingers through his hair at the word, tugging slightly to emphasize her point. He gently nips below her belly button in response, right above the button of her jeans.

“And I will. But have a little patience, Jones. I’m fairly certain you'll enjoy the ride if you let me lead this time.”

Her protest dies on her tongue as he moves back up her body and kisses her, deep and slow and sweet, while he wraps a firm hand around the column of her neck and fists the other in her hair. And good god, it shouldn’t be this easy to melt in his arms. But she’s like putty and he is a _very_ talented sculptor.

After he’s satisfied that she has agreed to yield to him, he makes his way down her body and gets her the rest of the way undressed. She breathes a sigh of relief at that, but it’s short lived because he starts to torture her again, tracing the entire length of her body, starting at her feet and working his way up. And when he has finished gently tracing the lines of her face, he starts his path again. But this time he uses his tongue, starting with the graceful line of her neck and not leaving an inch of her skin untasted.

“What are you doing?” The tremble in her voice takes the reprimand out of her tone, making her sound more needy and impatient than anything else.

“Just getting the lay of the land. I didn't quite have the chance last time, and that’s a shame. Because you’re gorgeous.”

Just when she's about to chide him again for taking his sweet time, he moves down her body and places slow, open-mouthed kisses on the inside of her thighs. She tries and fails (miserably) to stifle a gasp. The stubble of his cheeks on the soft skin makes her want to write. And when he moves in, lightly licking her clit, she arches off the bed.

“ _Fuck.”_

He pauses and moves to kiss the inside of her thigh again before answering her.

“This is what I mean when I say I want to try make things up to you.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to insert more threat into her tone that she truly feels in the moment.

“Fine, but you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

That's all the permission he needs, and he smirks and chuckles under his breath.  And then he's on her- tasting her, savoring her, and unraveling her bit by bit. The build up is slow and steady, like setting a fire low in her belly that slowly spreads throughout her body. And, honestly, she’s in awe of his technique. He's indirect, initially, without being too light and becomes relentless by the end without ever being overstimulating. It's like he's reading her goddamn mind. And apparently she said that out loud because suddenly he's chuckling- low and rough and _delicious-_ into the skin of her abdomen as he addresses her.

“Not reading your mind. Just paying attention and reading your body. I think you'll find I'm rather good at that.”

She gathers a fistful of his sheets in her hand and blows out a measured exhale, trying for an unaffected tone, even though he has to know just how much he is affecting her. “I guess, but I bet you can do better.”

He huffs a laugh and smirks at her before setting back to his task with even greater finesse than before. And just when she’s about to curse his name because she’s so close and just needs a little _more,_ he uses a finger or two to help ensure she gets exactly what she needs to come. And oh, does she, body seizing as she moans a string of curses.

She’ll be honest, he’s actually quite impressive, and he’s not even done yet. He brings her over the edge not once, not twice, but _three_ times before he even takes off his pants. And by then, it's the closest she's ever come to begging as she tries to communicate her desire for him to _hurry the fuck up._

She trails her fingers down his abdomen to tug playfully the waist of his pants while she works to catch her breath.

“So you're not terrible at that. But goddammit, you better still be planning to fuck me. Because if not, you'll have hell to pay, Murdock.”

He moves up the bed until he’s straddling her thighs and sits, while his hands trace the curve of her waist, starting at her hips and ending at her rib cage.

“You talk a big game, Jones. But who's lying naked and trembling on the bed right now? Are you sure you're in the position to be making demands?”

She scoffs at him and takes his wrists in her hands, pulling him forward until he’s leaning over her, hands on the bed above her shoulders.

“If you're really trying to show me how sorry you are, I think I am in just the position to be making demands.”

He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow. “Fair enough. So what would you like for me to do?”

She trails a purposeful hand down his torso again, but this time, when she reaches the waist of his pants, she slides her fingers inside the waistband just enough to pull his hips to hers. “You can start by taking off those goddamn pants, and then you can fuck me like you mean it.”

He rolls his tongue in his mouth and huffs at her before sitting back on her thighs again and lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. She watches in anticipation as a hungry look spreads across his face. “Alright.”

He moves backward off the bed until he can stand and remove his pants and boxers. “But should know…” he leaves the sentence unfinished as he slowly kneels back on the bed and moves up her body. She blows out a shuddering breath with the glide of his slow, strong hands up her thighs as he kneels between her legs.

“...I do mean it.”

And the intent way he touches her, worshipful hands holding her urgently but tenderly, to lift and brace her hips as he brings their bodies together proves it. And the way he adores her takes her breath away as much as her climax does.

She’s already pretty damn wound up, thanks to his other efforts, so it doesn’t take long until she’s panting and dancing along the edge. She threads a hand through his hair and gives him an array of tiny bruises as she digs the fingers of her other hand into his back, her anchor against the coil of tension in her abdomen that's about to snap. And he appears to be just as close, if his intense expression and his increasingly erratic breathing are anything to go by. At her jagged and breathy plea of “Matt, _more._ _Goddammit,_ I’m so close,” he huffs a laugh in between his panting and brings one hand down to circle her clit a few times. And on the third stroke, her whole nervous systems ignites and she moans his name.

“ _Matt, fuck yes._ ”

She barely catches his answering words because her capacity for coherent thought is shattering and dissolving along with her corporeal form and connection to the outside world. But she thinks she catches him moaning her name, softly, into her hair as he follows right behind her over the edge.

“ _Jessica_. _Oh_ _god, Jessica_.”

Right as she's reaching her peak, she thinks for a moment that she catches traces of tears in his eyes. But then she’s lost to oblivion, and by the time she’s rejoined the land of the living, they’re gone. When she looks at his face now, all she can see is a look of utter devotion.

And it's terrifying. But a quiet, tiny voice in the back of her head thinks it's something she _needs._ Because no one has looked at her that way before. Ever. And it's the exact opposite of the way the bastard she doesn't deign to name used to look at her. Because that was all about possession and control.

But Matt looks at her like she's everything good in his world, and he's lucky to be sharing the same air with her. And as much as it unsettles her, part of her wants to snap a picture of this look and carry it in her back pocket, a constant reminder of the good that can exist in men, and the world in general.

When he collapses on the bed next to her, she settles in against his chest and listens to his heart beating as his hand cards through her hair. And she thinks maybe his devotion could be the key to their redemption.

\---

Over time, their rounds become less about punishment or an outlet of anger and more about the fighting, itself. Friendly competitions and challenges, and occasionally some lessons. But often, it turns into something a little different than fighting. Those nights are her favorite. Their adrenaline is already up, and she’ll be honest, pain and pleasure are somewhat linked in her head (and she can’t blame Kilgrave for that). Maybe it has something to do with her strength. That seems likely. All she knows is that fighting with him sometimes makes her want to devour him as much as it helps her process her anger. He seems to be right there with her, though. Maybe it's the Catholic in him, or his inherently masochistic tendencies. But there’s just something about watching him fight that _really_ works for her. He's obviously skilled and very dangerous, but he’s not even a fraction as strong as she is. Yet, he is formidable in his own right. It takes considerable effort and intention for her to beat him, and he often bests her anyway, even when she’s making a serious attempt to defeat him. But she loves the element of challenge in trying.

It also helps that he doesn’t wear the suit when it's just the two of them. Sometimes, when she’s really lucky, he doesn’t wear a shirt at all (and she knows he does that intentionally). Then she can see the ripples of his abs and biceps and back muscles as he blocks her blows, dancing around her, and flipping like a ninja. Showing off. But she doesn’t mind. She loves how she can feel the heat of his body when they get close, and it makes her wonder. She has a general understanding of his sensory abilities, but she would love to know what it feels like for him, since all his senses are so enhanced. She wonders if it’s even better for him than it is for her. If she had to guess, she'd say so. Hence, why he sometimes sets her up by not wearing a shirt or holding back enough that she pins him in two moves (when it would normally take many more than that, if she could at all). And then it’s a matter of time to see who caves first.

Tonight, he does. He flips her so he’s pinning her to the mat, and draws her arms up and over her head where he holds her wrists and proceeds to tease the length of her body relentlessly with his other hand. They both know that she could overpower him with a single shrug if she wanted to. But sometimes she likes to let him pretend to hold her down and drive her mad. He's the very definition of adoring when she lets him be, and there are times that it's nice to give herself up to that.

She doesn't even notice she's doing it at first, but once she does, she is shocked at how easy it is to do it again. At least with him. And maybe he's what she's been missing all along.

It's certainly starting to feel that way.

\---

The third time follows closely after the second, and she finds it's a happy medium between the other two experiences they've had so far.

It's a little while later, and she has almost drifted off to sleep against his chest when he speaks.

“Jess, how would you feel about going somewhere we could fight? Just the two of us, going a few rounds in the ring. Maybe that would help with some of your anger.”

She pulls back far enough to look at his face and check his expression. He seems completely serious, but she can’t help but raise an eyebrow to match her incredulous tone. “What? You're offering me the chance to kick your ass? Just like that? You know I'm stronger than you, right?”

He smirks into her hair as she settles back against him. “I’m aware. I just thought it might help us through this part. Help with some of the tension. Not that I don’t love _this_ as an alternative, because I absolutely do. But I worry that it isn’t addressing the root of the problem. You're allowed all of the anger you feel, but I can't help but think there's a better way to go about helping you express it.”

“So you _want_ me to kick your ass? Are you sure this isn't about you and your guilt, _St. Matthew_?”

He grimaces spectacularly, and it’s adorable to watch.

“Oh my god. _Please_ don’t call me that when we're still lying naked in my bed after I’ve thoroughly fucked you.”

She snorts a laugh, and he chuckles reluctantly. She doesn’t miss that he is masterfully evading her question, but she decides it’s not something she’ll push right now. The idea he's suggesting is an intriguing one. And it might really work as an outlet for her anger.

He pulls her closer as she contemplates the idea, and his free hand traces the line of her jaw as he gently lifts her head to up to look at him.

“Tell me, honestly, that kicking my ass hasn't crossed your mind in the last twenty-four hours.”

She sighs because he's right; she’s thought about it _multiple_ times.

“My point exactly. But this way, we make it more formal, more ritualized. Maybe we could even turn it into a competition of some sort. Besides, you're gonna have to be quick to even land a hit in the first place, Jones. Because I'm not gonna hold back.”

She scoffs and pushes herself up on an elbow to properly stare him down because she's genuinely a bit offended by that remark.

“You're on, if for no other reason than I need to prove to you that I can crush you without even breaking a sweat.”

He smiles and rolls to face her, pushing up on his elbow in a reflection of her pose. His voice is both playful and rough all at once as he goads her.

“Oh, I _like_ it when you talk that way. Please, tell me more about how you're going to ‘crush’ me.”

She places a finger in the center of his chest and drags it slowly down his torso, stopping at his belly button. Her voice is low, lilting dangerously. “Careful, Murdock. You're playing with fire, and you’re gonna end up burned.”

He gives her a smile so enticing her breath catches. “Haven't you heard? I'm Daredevil. Fire doesn't scare me.”

“Mhhhm. You really don't know when to quit, do you?”

“Generally, that’s considered a positive quality. I believe it’s called being determined. Or at least being persistent.”

She rolls her eyes, feigning an irritated tone. But she’s actually having fun with this exchange, and she doesn’t want it to end quite yet. “Or it's called being a smart-ass. God, and people say that _I_ have a mouth.”

“Well, I am a lawyer. That kind of comes with the territory. But I'd like to remind you that you seemed to _thoroughly_ enjoy my mouth a little bit ago.” He moves closer to her on the bed and leans in to place an open mouthed kiss behind her ear to stress his point.

She fakes a sigh to cover her shuddering breath. “Good point; and that sounds like a much better use for it, anyway.”

He huffs a laugh at her and encourages her to lay back, leaning into her left side as he draws mindless patterns on her stomach. “I'm still failing to see the threat in that. And you don't have to threaten me,anyway. You can just ask. I'd love to get you off again. You're even more breathtaking than usual when you're cursing my name under your breath and fisting your hand in my hair.”

He's whispering into her ear by the end, and has taken her breast in his hand, toying gently with her nipple, all of which causes her heart to beat in triple time. It's totally unfair how easily he's winding her up again, how he seems to know _just_ how to tease her. But she can’t honestly say that she minds.

She rolls on top of him and pins his hands against the bed above his head.

“Well, here’s a threat that might actually mean something to you. If you don’t shut up and start putting your talents to better use, I may just have to start kicking your ass right here. But not in the fun way.”

He laughs, and the sound is easy and unrestrained, like some of the guilt he's been carrying around all day is starting to lift off of his shoulders. She's glad about that, even if part of her can't wait to give him exactly what is coming to him when they have their first fight in the ring.

But in between now and then, the third time is fun as much as it's rough or sensual. She enjoys the contrast. And she finds that she's looking forward to whatever it is that will happen between them when they do get to go up against one another for a round.

\---

As time passes, their fighting shifts in intensity with the different purpose it is serving at the moment. Sometimes it’s more of a dance or competition when they’re joking or feeling cheeky. Other times it’s intense and focused, when it’s more about expressing her anger. And then there are times when it is reverent and emotional, when it’s more about him paying penance. But one thing is for sure- she's gotten much better over the last couple of months. He still beats her more often than not, no matter the circumstances, but she's picked up a few things, and she's getting better at anticipating the attacks which might be coming her way. She has learned that’s a big part of the battle. And she’s finding that to be true in other areas of her life outside of this boxing ring, also.

Sometimes, their fighting doesn't even end in sex. Instead, it ends with sweeter, more domestic gestures that she would disparage as sappy and contrived if they were happening with anyone other than Matt. Things like helping him clean his lip or eyebrow when she manages to split them, or helping him ice whichever body part she hit particularly hard (maybe even at full strength) this time. Or him assisting her with her hand wraps, unwinding the fabric and helping to clean her knuckles, which are slowly developing the callouses he has had for who knows how long. Sometimes he can’t seem to resist the urge to kiss them, an apology for causing any part of her the slightest amount of pain. And that might actually be the most shocking part of everything that has been happening between them in the last few months for all that it represents. Because he has developed a familiarity with her body, from her toes up to her hair, and everything in between, the likes of which she didn't think she'd ever be able to allow anyone else to gain with her. And the shocking part is that it _doesn’t even bother her,_ while the mere idea of someone knowing her so intimately used to make her sick with shame and panic and fury.

And yet, here he stands, bringing her knuckles to his lips and placing reverent kisses there as if to tell her all the things he cannot, or will not, say out loud. And she feels no prickle of apprehension or disgust in her stomach as he does so. All she feels is amazement. And gratitude, stronger than she's ever felt before. Because, somehow, this is different. _He_ is different. And somehow, his sins and broken pieces, his worries and his struggles seem to align with hers. This knowledge consumes her as he gently rubs ointment into the delicate skin of her hands, to help with healing and one day erase the signs that she had ever struck him in the first place. As he does so, a funny thought occurs to her.

She actually kind of wants some kind of battle wound from him. Perhaps like the bruises she still gives him, when he's not careful or quick enough with his deflections, or like the few, tiny crescent moon shaped scars he has on his wrist from a time she got a little carried away with her grip as she flipped and pinned him in a rush. But regardless of how, she has the sudden and intense desire to be marked by him as he is by her. She wants to wear his fingerprints on her skin in the shape of small, blue and purple spots where he grabs her arm to flip her or holds her down to the mat. She wants to wear his hand and footprints on her torso and back and arms, where she takes the brunt of his attacks. She wants to wear his blue and purple bruises with the same pride he still wears hers.

Because maybe he’s not the only one who has some penance to pay.

\---

She stops counting after the third time, not that she was consciously counting in the first place, and only knows that as they spend more and more time together, she enjoys every single second she’s with him, regardless of what they happen to be doing. She does quite enjoy the physical aspects of their relationship, however, and she’s constantly amazed at the versatility he shows her in that area. More often than not, she likes to lead when they’re having sex, and he doesn’t mind that at all. But she’s always surprised at how he’s able to parse the subtleties in the different ways that she might choose to go about leading and respond accordingly. Just as easily as he can read her mood, he gauges her desire and is able to guess what pace she’s craving, often before she’s even consciously acknowledged it herself. And a part of her thinks that doesn’t just come from him being Daredevil or having super senses, but from the fact that they seem to be so in sync with one another.

The more she pays attention to this fact, the more she sees evidence of it in everything they do together. From the way they match each other in bed, to the way he often guesses what might trigger her before it happens (then works to avoid said trigger), and from the way their senses of humor align, to the way she finishes his sentences for him or flat out guesses what he’s thinking, speaking it to him and breaking him out of his broody silence. All things considered, they seem to be a near perfect fit.

At first she doesn’t recognize the emotion she feels as she begins to accept this truth, and she worries it’s a sign that things are too good to be true and will eventually end in a spectacularly disastrous fashion. But over time, she comes to understand what the emotion is and why she’s so unfamiliar with it.

It’s hope- pure and unadulterated. She had forgotten what that felt like. And even though she may not be willing to admit it out loud, she’s really glad to have it back.

\---

Religion has never been something in which she was very invested, but lately the topic has been on her mind. Because she sees how important it is to him, sees how it can ground him, and it makes her start to wonder. And it may also have something to do with the fact that what happens between them in the ring has come to feel somehow … sacred. Like some kind of divine agreement. A convenant of sorts. An exchange of her anger for his redemption. A ritualistic cleansing which grants forgiveness. When broken down into those component parts, she finds it makes a whole lot more sense to her. And more than anything, it makes her yearn for her own kind of forgiveness.

But the forgiveness she seeks is not the kind she subconsciously chases when she very occasionally takes a specific kind of case with all too familiar details and a worried family member or friend who is looking for the young woman they used to know, whose last known whereabouts put her with a guy who is nothing but trouble. A woman who is coming back different, if she comes back at all, after finally escaping the torment that had been ensnaring her. She doesn’t take every case like this that is presented to her because doing so would threaten to smother the hope that has been growing ever so slowly in her heart, thus driving her back down into the depths she has fought, tooth and nail to escape. But the funny thing is (though tragic is the more accurate word), the cases like this that she actually agrees to take all end up being young-ish blondes. Every single time. Without fail. Probably because no matter what she tries, she still can’t seem to forget the the weight of Hope’s failing body in her arms, the tang of iron in the air, the bright red pool of blood on the concrete beneath her and the hot, sticky mess of it coating her hands as she watched Hope’s chest rise and fall for the last time. And since she couldn’t save Hope, no rescue, however celebrated, will ever feel like saving the _right_ traumatized, blonde girl.

It’s also not the kind of forgiveness she is constantly looking for at the bottom of whatever bottle, shot glass, or tumbler she currently has within reach, all while vehemently denying that she holds herself responsible for the deaths of (how many? ten, at least?) innocent people than she cannot bear to remember drunk, let alone sober.

She doesn’t want forgiveness for any of that, or at least not from him. Because she knows that those things are not his to forgive, and to ask that of him is unfair to the both of them. And anyway, the kind of forgiveness she is dying for in these moments would come from being embraced by him, the person she cares most about in the world, after opening herself up, showing him all of her broken, fucked up pieces, and saying ‘I break everything I touch, but I need you like I need air to breathe. So can you please forgive me now for the possibility that I will accidentally break you too?’.

And the craziest part is that she thinks he just might understand all that, without her having to say a word. This whole arrangement was originally his idea, after all, and as more time passes and they meet in the ring more and more, the surer she is that he understands exactly why she continues to agree to come here, or why she will sometimes let him get in a good hit that she has long since learned how to deflect. And something about the way he knows just when to stop pulling his punches and land a solid blow that will bruise her pale skin beautifully, something about the way the ghost of a smile flickers across his face whenever she exhales in relief at the contact tells her that he does know. And when she really thinks about it, it makes a lot of sense. Because if anyone, anywhere, were to understand it, it would be him.

She’ll be the first to admit that she never understood the appeal of religion before. But now, with what they’ve been sharing together, she’s become a devout disciple of St. Matthew Murdock and his practices. And using what she’s learned from him, she will earn her own penance and give him her devotion as she seeks the mercy and forgiveness for which she never knew how to ask. And in the process, she’ll wear his bruises like they are proof of her redemption.

She doesn’t wear purple anymore, but she’ll make an exception for him with this, as with all the others she has come to make where he’s concerned. Because it’s becoming increasingly clear to her that he _is_ her exception. To anything and everything. And the realization of that fact scares her much less than it would have several months ago. But they’ve gotten this far, and that feeling of  fledgling hope is still bright in her chest, encouraging her not to worry that the worst will inevitably come when she feels so blissfully happy right now. Maybe they can continue on as they have so far, taking it all day by day. Or round by round, and blow by blow. One bruise at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this one got away from me and my initial plans, by quite a lot, but hopefully not in a bad way. Regardless, I'm still obsessed with these two, and am working hard to put all of my other ideas into stories. Let me know your thoughts if you're so inclined, and THANK YOU so much for reading, for the kudos, and for the comments (even if it takes me a while to respond to them, I read them and I love them, so thank you!)!!!


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